


Down Where the Rats Live

by vaeltaa



Category: James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: M/M, One Shot, Police Uniforms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-02
Updated: 2013-01-02
Packaged: 2017-11-23 07:58:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/619818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vaeltaa/pseuds/vaeltaa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’ve made a decision…” Bond says, lips closing in on Silva’s. “…Not to eat everyone else.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Down Where the Rats Live

Darkness swallowed him up as he climbed down into London’s vast underground network of tunnels, dark and dank, spreading out beneath the city like infected blood veins.

Down, down where the rats live.

Bond gripped his gun tighter, squinting in the dim orange light, making his way across subway tracks and barely missing an oncoming train. His heart pumped inside his chest, distributing adrenaline throughout his body, sharpening his senses and hardening his cock.

Chasing this deformed madman through the wet, pulsating underbelly of London, Bond couldn’t help but admire Silva’s genius escape. The audacity and sheer arrogance that lay behind it was something he could appreciate.

Finding a doorway out from the dark and into the fluorescent hallways packed with commuters, Bond navigated the crowds with ease with Q’s directions in his ear. His pulse throbbed in his head as he boarded a train, spotting Silva’s blond hair partly disguised by a police officer’s cap.

The train came to a stop and Silva momentarily vanishes in the crowd as Bond continues his pursuit. Halting at the top of the escalators, Bond spots him again sliding down the middle rails. Without a second thought, he slides down after him.

Hitting the lower level, Silva glances behind at the man following him, unflinching. He laughs, enjoying the cat-and-mouse game. Or shall we say cat-and-rat game, he thinks to himself.

Bond scans the crowd. He counts one, two, several uniformed police officers moving through the mass of bodies, then he spots a side-door in a corner half ajar.

Bond enters the door and the harsh blue fluorescent is replaced with an orange glow lighting the damp brick walls in a sick hue. He navigates through the tunnel and his senses feel it opening up into a much larger space, and flips a switch on a box on the wall beside him, just in time for construction lamps to flicker on and reveal a shadow moving on the far side.

Bond descends the stone stairs and fires three shots. “Whoa,” Silva exclaims, almost offended and stops, perched on an old iron ladder.

“I won’t miss next time, Mr. Silva,” Bond says darkly, controlling his breathing and ignoring the hard-on between his legs. This was really starting to become an inconvenient trait, he thinks.

One rush of adrenaline and you’d think he wasn’t a grown man in his forties, he rationalises to himself, blaming the pumping adrenaline and ignoring the little voice in the back of his mind telling him it’s not the chase; it’s the man he’s chasing.

“Not bad, James,” Silva smiles down at him. “For a physical wreck.”

Bond ignores the comment, knowing it’s not his shooting skills that are failing him, it’s his self-control.

“Why, thank you,” Bond replies dryly, walking slowly towards the uniformed man, gun raised.

“You caught me,” Silva continues, edging down the latter with slow steps. Silva’s boots hit the bottom and Bond’s eyes trail down the other man’s body as he straightens up and moves to stand eye-level with Bond.

“Now, here is your prize.”

Silva’s eyes glint under the shadow of the brimmed police hat as Bond’s gaze moves slowly from the wide black belt buckled around his hips, up over the constricting bullet proof vest to the pristine white collar contrasting against his clean-shaven neck.

Bond lowers his gun and drops it to the ground, snatches his ear piece out and turns off his radio with a click. Closing the final space between them, Bond grips the heavy fabric of Silva’s police coat and crushes their bodies together against the rusty ladder railing.

Silva chuckles in his ear and Bond moves his hands over the padded vest covering the blonde man’s torso. He grips the heavy belt buckle with one hand and brings the other to grip at Silva’s neck. “I’ve made a decision…” Bond says, lips closing in on Silva’s. “Not to eat everyone else.”

Their mouths crush together as the belt falls to the damp floor. Silva smiles against Bond’s lips and scrapes his fingers down Bond’s back. “Good choice, James. Very good.”

Bond pants into the former agent’s mouth, groaning as fingernails mark their territory. Bond deftly unzips Silva’s standard police issue black trousers with one hand and drops them down to pool around Silva’s feet. Silva bites down hard on Bond’s lower lip and Bond reaches around to grab Silva’s exposed ass with strong hands.

Breaking the kiss, Silva pants, echoing into the hollow chasm of the underground space. Water drips down from somewhere unseen.

Bond doesn’t break eye contact as he lets himself drop down to his knees and take Silva’s length into his mouth. Silva moans from deep within and holds onto the ladder behind him, the other hand guiding Bond’s head.

Bond sucks him deep, down to the base, fighting his gag reflex until his arctic blue eyes water. He steadies himself by gripping around Silva’s chiselled hips and starts a slow rhythm, gliding his tongue over the tip of Silva’s cock before taking him in again.

Silva’s breathing is obscenely multiplied in the empty space around them, and his eyes are half-closed in arousal, looking down at the double-oh agent kneeling in the dirt. He strokes Bond’s cheek with his right hand, his thumb wiping away the wetness.

“Ah, James…” He mutters as Bond’s finger teases around his hole. Releasing his cock from his mouth with an audible wet noise, Bond reaches into his inner pocket for a small tube, and uses the lube inside to coat his fingers and work Silva open.

“Are you…” Silva hisses and grips Bond by the hair as a response to the penetration, “…going to fuck me, agent Bond?” He continues; “Or just torture me? Because I have some experience in that area and your skills so far are lacking.”

Bond smirks up at him, then pulls his fingers out and stands up, unzipping his own pants and slicking up his aching erection. “Turn around,” he commands the former agent.

Silva turns and grabs a higher ladder step with both hands, raising his lower half almost off the ground, and Bond grips the shoulder edges of his bullet proof vest for leverage and Silva slowly lowers himself back down. Bond’s throaty groan echoes through the underground tunnel as he fills Silva’s tight hole.

Bond’s suit begins to cling to his sweat soaked skin as he fucks Silva at a slow, controlled pace, the other man lowering himself down to meet his thrusts, displaying an insane muscle control and strength that Bond admires open-mouthed between ragged breaths.

“Christ,” Bond moans as Silva clenches and unclenches around his cock, feeling less in control and more just along for the ride. Silva hangs on with only one hand, the other fisting his own cock along to Bond’s rhythm.

Bond feels his climax rising from deep within his core, and for a moment all he knows is this underground sanctuary; this stone church for rats; and Silva’s guttural groans of orgasm.

Bond follows shortly, emptying himself inside the other man completely and fully. They stay for a moment.

“James…” Silva sounds out, exasperated, “Oh, James.” Bond slips out of him and Silva climbs down, adjusting his now crooked police cap, smoothing stray strands of blonde hair back under it.

“ _Increíble_ ,” he turns and whispers, ghosting over Bond’s lips.

Bond smirks against the other man’s lips. “I know,” he replies.

Silva sighs contentedly and dresses himself. “Now. How about a head start, for old times’ sake?” he asks, smiling.

Bond adjusts his tie and crooked clothing, finding his gun and looks up.

“You’ve got thirty seconds.”

The shadow of a smirk dances on the edge of Bond’s lips as he watches Silva’s dark figure approach the ladder.

Suddenly, an explosion from above rattles Bond’s bones.

“Sure hope that wasn’t for me,” he says over the sound of falling bricks. Silva begins climbing and smiles down at Bond.

“No,” he laughs. “But that is,” he answers, tipping his hat goodbye at the agent below.

The ground beneath Bond’s feet groans as if anticipating an earthquake, and the hole in the roof above his head explodes in a burst of flames and bending steel. The subway train screeches as it’s thrown off its hinges and gravity powers it mercilessly forward.

A simple ‘thank you’ would have sufficed, Bond manages to think before throwing himself out of the train’s destructive path.


End file.
